


And the Cry Goes Out

by secondstar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Branding, Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Character Death, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slave Trade, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondstar/pseuds/secondstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the hand of Rome extending across the land, Primus Pilius Derek Hale knows what his duty is. With blood on his hands he brings his spoils of war with him back to Rome, straight into the hands of his Uncle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Cry Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

> see end notes re: noncon/dubcon elements
> 
> The undertones of the fic mirror that of HBO's ROME and of Spartacus. If any of the tags above are something that you personally are not okay with, I would suggest not reading this fic. 
> 
> Beta'd/looked over by Jinxy, Aeneaspsych, Robotlauren, Mumblo, Ionsquare, and Foreverblue-navy. Thank you guys so much!
> 
> let me know if you believe I didn't tag something correctly!

Two years was a long time to be at war, away from home, and long enough that Derek couldn’t remember the smell of civilization, of life without the stench of piss and sweat. Gone were the nights of peaceful sleep, undisturbed by the sounds of whores as they screamed out in pleasure or pain. 

Time away from his family took its toll, as he was sure it did on all men. Being away from wives to keep their bed warm, their cocks wet, left them to wandering eyes and hands. Derek wasn’t one to partake of loose women, but he had been known to forget himself by drowning in wine. 

It dulled the ache of each blow he took for the Republic, of each death he reaped with his gladius and dagger. Blood was on his hands, unable to be washed away even by the gods. Only wine could satiate his need for numbness as he sat in his tent night after night, going over maps, emptying cup after cup. 

Two years was too long to be away and Derek wished to be back in Rome, though his place was with the legion, with his men. He was a soldier for life, sworn to the Roman Republic. He made do by way of letters, sending money to his sisters and uncle with promises of his return. When he got letters in return, he read them immediately, smelling the parchment, which they doused in sweet-smelling perfumes that reminded him of them before setting it alight. 

He couldn’t keep them as he travelled. 

They headed for Gaul, taking it over one village at a time, laying waste to those who didn’t surrender. They pillaged, raped women and men alike, killed the old, chained the young and able-bodied who didn’t die in the initial massacres. 

There was no mercy. 

With a stoic face, Derek did as he was told. Orders were orders, no matter how high he climbed up the heirarchy, there was always someone to answer to. With gladius in hand, Derek struck down those who did not fall to their knees before the Romans. 

“Primus Pilus,” one of his centurions, Boyd, said, catching his attention just before battle. “Is it true?” 

“Do not hold tongue, Centurion,” Derek said, his back stiff and chin high, eyes straight ahead as he held the reins of his horse. 

“Word of going home has passed through the barracks this day,” Boyd said, his voice hushed. Derek’s jaw tightened, his eyes falling to his centurion, his friend. 

“No word has come to me directly, do not think to open mouth,” his words bit, but there was no wound meant, only a word of warning to him. There was no sense in hoping to be sent back to Rome any time soon, even if only for a short reprieve. 

“Yes, Primus Pilus,” Boyd said before heading towards his legionaries. As he watched him go, Derek let out a breath. Home was but a distant memory, replaced by bloodthirsty men who wanted nothing more than to kill for Rome. 

That was who he had been, years ago when being a soldier had seemed the hero’s call. Now he knew what war was, how it changed a man, left him hollow, a mere husk. He needed a change. 

They marched in perfect rows with the sun beating down on them, their movements coordinated and precise. The Roman army was not quick or stealthy. Villages knew they were on the horizon not only by sight but by sound. Drums and horns alerted them, giving them time to prepare, to be frightened. 

The drums beat out a rhythm, one that mimicked his heartbeat as he rode on horseback, his back straight and face devoid of all emotion. A certain feeling washed over him as the screams began, women shouting, men attempting to fight. He shivered before pulling out his gladius, ready to invade, to conquer for Rome. 

Blood covered the ground as he dismounted, his leather laced boots, caligae, squishing through the maroon mud. Above him, the Praefectus stayed on his horse as he walked along the line of the remaining villagers, all of them forced onto their knees. 

“How many?” He asked Derek. Derek eyed them, walking down the line. 

“Fifty, Praefectus,” Derek answered. “Fifteen haven’t even reached puberty. They are but children.” He should feel something, anything, as wide eyes and small bodies stared up at him in fear. He looked away instead, at a young man who, unlike the other men, looked boldly up at him defiantly. “They are good stock,” he said, overenunciating for the young man before him, his hand on his gladius, blood still dripping from it. They hadn’t kept any slaves from the past two villages, slaughtered everyone. As Derek looked down at the man, his lips in a thin line, face tear-stained, covered in mud, he narrowed his eyes at the Gaul. He stood before him, towering above him with his hands on his hips. 

“Shackle them,” the Praefectus said. “There has been word from Rome. We return with our heads high.” Derek looked to him, his face showing relief for just a moment before lowering his mask once more. Derek nodded his head, his hand reaching for the Gaul at his feet, pulling at his tunica until he stood up. 

“You heard the Praefectus,” Derek bellowed, turning towards the soldiers around him. “Have them chained. We make for Rome.” He kept his gaze locked with the Gaul, who stood as tall as he, his arms lean but muscular, his mouth perfect for taking cock, face dotted with moles as if kissed by the stars themselves. “Your lives have been spared,” Derek said to the villagers around him, his hand holding onto the chin of the Gaul before him. “For you have the gods to thank for it.” 

Derek closed his eyes just as he was spit on. 

“Fuck your gods,” the man before him spat vehemently. Derek shoved him to the ground, grabbing onto his hair as Boyd approached with shackles. 

“Perhaps we return with forty-nine?” Boyd said with a lifted brow. Derek wiped at his face with his arm, his face impassive as he took hold of the shackles. 

“Speak your name, Gaul,” Derek said with a sneer. When he did not answer, Derek gave him a shove with his boot. “Speak or be whipped and left hanging by your toes with your cock cut off by my own hand.” 

“Stiles,” he said, his eyes showing no fear, only loathing. 

“You, Stiles, now belong to the house of Hale.” Derek bent down, locking the shackles around Stiles’ wrists, binding them around his front. As the other villagers were brought together, linked by rope tied together, Derek pulled Boyd aside. 

“When the slaves are divided by lots, be sure to tell the Beneficiarius that he goes to me.” 

“Yes, Primus Pilus,” Boyd said as he led the villagers away, keeping Stiles close. Before Derek turned towards his horse, he gave one last look to Stiles, who gave him a glare in return. 

The return to Rome was no mean feat. The Roman army did not move quickly as in battle. They crept back towards Rome, picking up more slaves along the way. Derek grew wearier as the city approached, as thoughts of his sisters filled his head. 

He did not believe himself to be a man fit for their company, not anymore. He was savage, felt more akin to a monster than a man of high birth. Born of a patrician family, he had wealth and lineage, had anything he could dream of within the city walls. Upon his parents’ death he signed the papers, joining the Roman army at the age of fourteen. 

Derek did not wish for them to see the blood on his hands. 

He thought not about the Gaul, nor the other slaves, until they reached Rome. They were welcomed with a parade, with flowers thrown at them and shouting citizens happy for their return. Derek felt emptiness as he looked out into the crowd. They went to the barracks before they disbanded for the fortnight to recuperate. There, Derek washed in the bathhouse, scrubbing out the dirt and grime that he hadn’t been able to while at war. He soaked, went into the steam room, then soaked again.

Clean-shaven, with a clean tunica over his armour, Derek walked through the streets of Rome with purpose. He knew the path well, his memory sharp as he made his way to his family’s villa. Huge, it took up over two blocks. Its walls were high, painted finely in bright colors, the gates open for his return. Outside, his family’s guards saluted him before he walked into the atrium to be greeted by his sisters and uncle. 

“Nephew,” his uncle, Peter, said with open arms. “It’s good to have you home.” 

“Uncle,” Derek said as he put a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. 

“You’ve grown so,” Laura, his older sister said as she stepped forward. Derek leaned down, kissing her cheek once, then twice, his eyes closing as he breathed her in. She smelled of home. 

“So have you,” Derek murmured, his rough hands on her silky arms. His eyes then fell to his younger sister, Cora, whom he could barely recognize. “And you, dear sister,” he said. Cora walked forward, mimicking her sister’s welcome by pecking him on the cheek. 

“Glad you’re home,” she said, her voice distant, as if he was a stranger within their walls. 

“How long?” Laura asked as the four of them walked through the house, where they could be seated on long, cushioned benches so that they could recline as they spoke. 

“A fortnight, at the least,” Derek said as he leaned forward, picking grapes off of a tray. He hadn’t had them in so long, he let out a small moan, his eyes closing. When he opened them, Cora was eyeing him suspiciously. “I return, then, for orders.”

“Surely you’ll stay longer, you’ve been gone two years.” Laura waved her worries away, taking a wine cup, holding it up for a slave to fill. Derek eyed the slave, looking her up and down before remembering. 

“I’ve returned with my hands full, my purse heavy. I need to retrieve our new slaves at first light.” 

“How many for the household?” Peter asked, picking lazily at the food before him. 

“Of the exact number I’m unsure,” Derek said, taking more fruit to eat. “But you’ll not be displeased.” 

“What good fortune indeed,” Laura said with a smile. “Now, let us plan a dinner party for your return.”

“No,” Derek said, letting out a heavy sigh. 

“Please,” Cora said, sitting up a little. Derek shook his head, looking at his uncle for help. He was no match for his sisters, whom he’d give anything to, even the clothes on his back. 

“Before I leave you may have one, but for now I wish for peace,” he said with finality. Cora’s face fell, but she didn’t put up a fight. All he wanted was to return to normality. 

-

Stiles did not cry. He hadn’t cried since the day he was captured, torn from his father, from their home. He watched as the Romans burned his village to the ground, slaughtering his friends before his very eyes. No, Stiles did not weep, for he had no more tears to spare. 

Instead, he ached for what once was, now forever lost to him. His life was stripped from him, his dignity in shreds as he was made to walk from Gaul to Rome, his sandals falling apart along the way, feet torn and blistered. His wrists were mangled, flesh stripped and bloodied, wounds unable to be closed by the constant rubbing. He slept in filth, his body unwashed since the day he was taken. He felt as though he had already died, living in a hell that surely no god would make him suffer through as he watched women being raped, men being killed for speaking out of turn, or for fun. 

Stiles kept his head down all the way to Rome, his eyes narrowed as they travelled, each time they fell across the Primus Pilus, the one who claimed him. How he hated the man, with his armor and fine sandals, his gladius coated in Gaul blood. 

Once within the walls of Rome, they were brought to a trader, kept in a cage like animals, split up into lots and given a new shackle, one around the neck, locked with a key. Stiles looked around the cage, his eyes shifting from person to person, sizing them up. They were varied of age, sex, and color. None of them were from Gaul, like him, so he kept his mouth shut. He hadn’t spoken since the day he was shackled, not a word. 

He didn’t sleep as he looked up at the stars. They were kept outside, open to the elements, a courtyard lined with cages, but Stiles didn’t think of his capture. Instead, he thought of the stars and their fate, forever looking down on them, watching their misdeeds and follies. Stiles tried to count them as a child, his father laughing at him but never dismissing his goal. Stiles shut his eyes at the memory, his head hanging low as his shoulders shook. No tears fell. 

At first light, they were woken up by banging on the cage bars, forced out like cattle as they stood in a line, pressed up against a wall. There, standing before him, was the Primus Pilus. He wore a finely made tunica, new sandals, and no gladius. Stiles licked his lips, thinking of killing him with his bare hands as the Primus Pilus looked them over, his new slaves. Stiles looked straight ahead as a man with him, perhaps the Paterfamilias himself, the head of the house, reached out and undid a woman’s tunica, letting it fall to the ground so he could view her body. Stiles didn’t react as he did the same to every slave down the line, bearing them all for everyone to behold. When they got to him, Stiles held his breath. His own tunica was ripped, barely held together. The Paterfamilias looked him over, his eyes stilling on his face, before the cloth dropped to the ground. Stiles refused to close his eyes out of embarrassment or fear. His body was no longer his own. Instead of looking to the man before him, he looked instead at the Primus Pilus, Derek Hale. Derek, too, gazed at Stiles, his eyes falling across Stiles’ body. 

“We want the lot,” Derek informed the slaver, handing him the money required. Stiles didn’t know how to feel, but at that moment he wished he’d been killed on the field of his home, where he should have fought for his freedom instead of dropping to his knees as if ready to suck the cock of any man who asked in order to stay alive. 

“Have them cleaned before you send them,” the man next to Derek said, curling a lip at Stiles. “They smell of death.” 

“It will be done,” the slaver said before they walked away. Stiles closed his eyes finally, once they were gone, his chest heaving as he was allowed to pick up his clothes. They were ushered into a bathhouse, given a cloths to clean themselves up. It felt good to have the dirt be scrubbed away, layer by layer, leaving him feeling relatively clean for the first time in months. 

The walk through the streets of Rome in shackles left him dejected. The city was huge, with well-made buildings and statues, its narrow streets lined with people and its marketplace full and busy. Stiles ached for open land and rolling hills. He doubted he’d ever get to see it again. The Hale villa was imposing, taking up more than Stiles could see as they were brought around to the servants’ entrance, then through the house itself, his bare, dirty feet tracking his footprints onto the floors. Before them stood a man, much the same age as Stiles, with an easy smile that Stiles wasn’t sure was possible despite the collar around his neck. He was a slave, just like Stiles was. 

“You’re to be bathed before you meet the Dominus,” he said, looking to the floor. “You’ll be given new clothes, a meal to fill your stomachs, and then you’ll be assigned duties.” 

“We’ve just bathed,” a girl, with long brown hair, spoke out. 

“Then wash again,” he said, his voice firm but smile warm. So Stiles washed again, and again, until the water ran clean as it poured off his body, other household slaves helping him. Stiles looked over them for mistreatment, for malnourishment like he had gone through on the journey south. He found none, no bruising, nothing. 

“Here, let me,” the slave who ordered them to bathe said as he took a cloth, wiping it across Stiles’ wrists. Stiles cried out, tugging his hand away, holding it to his bare chest. “It needs to be cleaned,” he said. “I’m Scott, by the way.” Stiles bit his lip, his eyes searching Scott’s for some sign of foul play. 

“Stiles,” he said, his voice raspy with disuse. Scott smiled at him, offering out his hand. 

“Stiles, your wrists are in bad shape. I think we need to have the medicus look at them.” He helped Stiles out of the bath, giving him a white tunica and interulae, undergarments, before they went into a small room, where a basin of water and clothes were laid out . A girl, another slave, stood against the wall waiting for them. “Stiles, this is Lydia. She’s studying medicine with the medicus. Let her look at them.” Stiles said nothing as Scott put his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, forcing him to sit on the sedes, or chair, before him. Stiles grunted as he sat, his body happy to no longer be standing, but his worry over his wrists filling his thoughts as Lydia stepped forward. 

“This may hurt,” she said without pretense. Stiles gritted his teeth as she scrubbed at his wrists, ridding them of the dirt, covering them with a poultice before wrapping them in fine cloth. 

They stood in the atrium waiting in a line for the family members to come from the dining room, or the triclinium. 

“Now, before you ask, the Dominus of the Hale family is Peter,” Scott said, his voice hushed. “His nephew, Derek, is rarely home but he is to be treated as a Dominus himself. Derek has two sisters, Laura and Cora, both of whom are married, but they spend a lot of time here. Do not ask them their names, for you’ll never use them,” Scott said, looking Stiles in the eye. Stiles nodded along with the other new slaves. 

It wasn’t long before the four family members walked out into the atrium, the women in beautiful bright colors, their hair done up, while the men looked the same as they had earlier. 

“Laura, Cora, are you in need of any slaves?” Peter asked them as if they wanted a new piece of jewelry. 

“I could be,” Cora said, looking at the girl who spoke out before. “Do you have a name?” 

“Allison,” she said, holding her head high. 

“Allison, you’ll be one of my personal slaves.” Allison bowed her head, then was ushered away. One by one the slaves were sent either to be house slaves, garden, kitchen, or to do grunt work around the villa. Stiles hoped for the garden, which would be as close as he would get to his life before all of this. 

When Peter stopped before him, Stiles made sure to look straight ahead, his teeth biting down on his tongue to keep from speaking. He could feel Peter’s gaze on him, his eyes lingering on his mouth. He wasn’t naive to his thoughts, knew the implication behind it. Stiles still had a boyish face, though his baby fat was long since gone. 

“House slave,” Peter said with a smirk. “Don’t you think?” He asked Derek, who shrugged impassively. 

“By your will, uncle,” Derek said. “It is your house.” Peter smiled at Derek, bowing his head before he walked away, dismissing the slaves. Stiles’ gaze fell to Derek, whose eyes fell on him briefly, his eyes narrowing. 

“Come,” Derek said, getting their attention. “Make haste as you walk.” Stiles was pushed from behind by one of the new slaves, one of the twins who were to be house slaves alongside him. 

“Move, Gaul,” he said, making Stiles lose his footing with another rough nudge. Stiles reached out, touching Derek’s back in order to stop himself from falling completely. When Derek turned around, his glare directed at Stiles, he fell to his knees. 

“Your pardon, Dominus,” Stiles said, his voice still coarse and weak. “I tripped.” He knew he couldn’t tell the truth, that living in a house as a rat would make life even more difficult than it already was. 

“Mind feet, then balance should remain in-fucking-tact,” Derek said, stepping away from him, making sure Stiles didn’t use him to get back onto his feet. Stiles righted himself, falling behind as the others passed him by as they walked towards the back of the villa, into the peristylium, a courtyard with no roof, the garden area with a piscina, a shallow pool. It was beautiful to Stiles as he looked up at the sun above their heads. He knew it would become his favorite part of the villa. 

They passed the peristylium and walked into a back room, where another slave stood turning an iron poker around in red-hot coals. Dread washed over Stiles as he realized what they were going to do to him. 

“On one knee,” Derek said, his hand on one of the twins, forcing him down, then shoved aside his tunica, showing a bare shoulder. “You will wear the crest of the house Hale.” Stiles shut his eyes to the sound of him screaming, the smell of burnt flesh accosted his sense of smell, making him gag. 

Allison stood in front of him, practically shaking with fear. Stiles put a hand on her, hoping to show her a bit of comfort before the two of them were forced to their knees. 

“Withdraw hand or lose it,” Derek said above him. Stiles dropped his hand to his side, his head lowered as Allison sobbed beside him, trying to stop with each intake of breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles watched Derek move Allison’s hair out of the way gingerly, his own hand resting on her shoulder for a second as he leaned down. “Get her something to bite down on,” Derek ordered. A wooden spoon was handed to him with haste as he kept a hand on her. Stiles watched as she calmed down, her eyes closing as Derek put the spoon in her mouth so she could bite down on it. “Bravery does not only come in the form of charging into battle,” Derek said, not unkindly. “Brace yourself.” Allison clenched her jaw, biting down on on the spoon as she was branded on her shoulder, like the rest of the new slaves. 

Finally, it was Stiles’ turn. Manhandled into position, Stiles put his hands on his thighs as he knelt, his head bowed, eyes locked on the embers that glowed red. Derek put a hand to his other shoulder, his thumb pressed against the nape of Stiles’ neck. He shuddered, his fists clenched tight around the fabric of his tunica. He thought of Derek’s words to Allison about bravery, but all he could picture was the blood on Derek’s gladius and everyone he knew lying dead around him. 

As the brand singed his skin, he screamed out in pain. The smell of his own burning flesh made bile rise in his throat as he leaned forward, away from the hot poker, his hands grasping at the dirt ground around him. The pain was unbearable as Stiles gasped for air. He felt as though he was deprived of it, his mind hazy as he was brought to his feet.

When he was once more aware of his surroundings, Derek was gone. Stiles attempted to move his shoulder, but immediately stilled his movements. It was all too much for him to handle. 

His life was no longer his own, collared and branded, he belonged to the Hales. Only death could save him, now. 

-

Derek found that he could not sleep at night. As the house slept, he wished of battle, of order, of a daily regime that did not consist of visitors and eating while lounging around. What he thought he missed in civilization was but a romanticization of life in Rome. His sisters, though dear to him, did not understand the finality of death, of killing. His uncle, even, knew not the feel of a taking a man’s last breath. 

They did not understand his waking nightmares, the need to drown himself in wine. 

Derek sat in his room, wine jug in hand, staring at the wall with only the flickering of a single torch giving him light. Shadows danced across the walls before his eyes, making room in his mind for the retelling of battles since passed. 

The house was completely dark, except for the moonlight that shone down on the peristylium, casting it in a cool, soft light. Derek took a walk, wine cup in one hand, the jug in the other as he stepped over sleeping slaves. 

Slaves did not have beds, nor their own living quarters within their villa. They slept where they found room, giving them nowhere to call their own. They owned nothing, not even the clothes on their backs. They were property, could have none of their own. 

Derek finished off his cup of wine, then poured another, swaying where he stood. He looked down at the slave beneath his feet, curled up with his arms beneath his head for comfort. It was the Gaul, Stiles. Derek sneered but knelt beside him, his head tilting as he looked over him. He was the only slave in the peristylium, sleeping under the stars. Derek looked up at them, wondering what the gods thought of men like him who merely walked through life pretending to be someone he wasn’t, a shell of a man. 

When he looked back down, Stiles was awake, staring up at him. 

“Dominus?” He asked warily as he used an elbow to lift himself up. Derek’s gaze fell across his body, the short tunica that usually came just above the knee was pushed up his thighs from sleep, his feet bare, the dirt showing on the pads of his feet. 

“Sleep eludes me, Diana herself has denied me of rest,” Derek said to him, his head lifting towards the moon. 

“I know nothing of a Diana,” Stiles whispered. “But I know of sleep.” 

“Such luck you have,” Derek said, his body not moving from Stiles’ side. 

“Luck isn’t by my side, either, Dominus,” Stiles said, his tone biting. Derek looked down at him with warning, but said nothing. “I am knowledgeable in the ways of herbs.” 

“I wish not to be drugged,” Derek said. 

“Is wine not a drug?” Stiles asked. “It addles the mind and dulls the senses.” Derek let out a pained sigh, standing up. 

“Do not speak of things you do not understand.” 

When Stiles didn’t answer, Derek walked away, leaving him there. 

-

Stiles’ days were not overly strenuous, not like the days of his past where he was left aching from working out in the fields with the sun beating down on his back, bent over as he worked with his hands. Being a house slave meant he was indoors, that the callouses on his fingers faded slowly with time, softening out. 

He woke at dawn, before the family rose, setting everything out for their day. When Derek awoke, he helped him change. He helped him bathe, he refilled his wine cup, and he stood by his side throughout the day. 

They were not unkind to him or the other slaves. Allison broke one of Cora’s perfume bottles and nothing was done to her except that she had to clean it up herself. Stiles wondered what would happen if he dropped something of Derek’s, though. He knew him to be the violent Primus Pilus, knew he could kill within the blink of an eye and yet within his family’s walls he was nothing like the armoured man he met while he was on his knees, stripped of his freedom. 

“Today we go to the bathhouse,” Peter said while Stiles stood to the side as they ate lazily, reclining as he fanned Derek slowly. The day would be a hot one, and Stiles could already feel the ever present sweat dripping down his back. 

“Let it be so,” Derek said, looking to Stiles. “Find Scott, we leave presently.” Stiles bowed once, leaving them to gather other slaves for the short journey. Stiles buzzed with excitement because he hadn’t left the walls of the villa in almost two weeks, since his arrival. He found Scott talking to Allison, leaning close together, dangerously so. Stiles stilled, not wanting to interrupt, but knew that Derek and Peter waited on them. 

“We go to the thermae, find the twins,” Stiles said, making both of them jump in surprise. Thermae, or bathhouses, weren’t only used for bathing but also for socializing. The Hales had a small one of their own, a balnea, but the act of going to the thermae was that of social status. 

They set off with four slaves, Stiles included, along with two guards. The thermae themselves were huge, bigger than the villa. Stiles stood in awe as they approached them, walking through the doorway into the atrium where advertisements lined the walls for the theatre, announcements hung, including one for gladiators that Stiles found interesting as Peter spoke with the keeper of the baths. 

Stiles followed as they walked down a passageway, then into a changing room of sorts. Beside him, Aiden, one of the twins, carried Derek’s towel, his oils, and his strigil, a curved metal device that scraped off dirt and sweat. Stiles aided Derek in undressing, handing his things off to one of the thermae slaves who stowed them away. 

It was hot as they entered a room with mosaic tiled floors and walls where Stiles lost himself in the intricate details as Derek spoke to Romans about plans and day to day life that meant nothing to Stiles and didn’t hold his attention. 

The thermae contained not only baths but also a gymnasium of sorts where men exercised. They spent hours going through the building, the various rooms where Derek and his uncle sat, bathing for a time as they socialized, lounged in the water. 

Though it was his first time away from the villa, Stiles found himself wishing to be back. The amount of people in the thermae had him anxious. He believed there to be enough people in the building alone to fill his entire village. Rome’s size became apparent to him as Derek joined his uncle as they walked through the hallways. 

It wasn’t until they went into a private room that Stiles felt more at ease. Aiden stood to the side as Stiles used the strigil, scraping it across Derek’s skin before he applied oil. He admired Derek’s muscles, the curve of them, the feel as he washed him. Stiles kept his hands to himself, barely brushing his fingers over Derek’s skin. He felt Derek relax beneath his touch, his eyes closing as Stiles continued in the same vein. 

“By the gods good graces you’ll return to us again,” Peter said, sighing. Stiles felt as though he missed something, but by the nod of Derek’s head he realized that it had been a conversation Stiles must have zoned out during his ministrations. 

“Word came this morning of my departure. I head east by the week’s end.” He wondered what it would mean for his daily duties, since his life revolved around Derek and not anyone or anything else, though he couldn’t ask. 

“We will pray to the gods before you leave, a sacrifice will be made.” 

“I do not wish for a party, dissuade the girls of it,” Derek said as Stiles toweled Derek off after he stood up. His eyes remained on Derek’s bare skin as Peter laughed. 

“My power of tongue does nothing in the shadow of your sisters’ wants.” Derek grumbled, his eyes rolling. “You may return to the villa, I wish to remain and have my needs taken care of.” Stiles tried not to react at Peter’s tone, dark as he dressed Derek. 

“A massage would do you well, Uncle. I’ll leave you to it.” Stiles was positive that a massage wasn’t all that Peter would be getting. 

Stiles was glad to leave the thermae behind as they walked back out into the sunlight. He let his head tilt upward towards the sky as they walked briskly through the streets, much more quickly now that they were without Peter. Stiles found it hard to keep up after their leisurely stroll to the thermae earlier in the day. 

-

Once they returned to the villa, Stiles followed Derek into his room. 

“Why do you look to the sun?” Derek asked him as he turned to look at Stiles. 

“It reminds me of home, Dominus,” Stiles said, lifting his chin. “The sun, the moon, the stars. They are all I have left.” Derek supposed Stiles was right, that he had nothing. Derek looked over Stiles’ form, his body glistening with sweat in the afternoon heat. He thought of his uncle, satiating his own needs. He denied himself while at war, finding no solace between the legs of whores. 

Still, he stirred between his legs, his cock growing heavy with need. He took a step towards Stiles, a hand on his neck, holding him close. 

“You have life,” Derek said. “Which is more than you would have had if not for me.” His breath was hot on Stiles’ skin, his eyes locked on the moles that dotted Stiles’ face as he turned Stiles’ head with his hand. 

“I am yours, Dominus,” Stiles said hollowly. Derek licked Stiles’ neck, tasting the sweat, moaning as he pressed himself against him. He could take him, spread him wide and fulfill his lust. He thought not of Stiles’ wants, for he had none as far as Derek was concerned at that moment. Only a gasp from Stiles stilled Derek’s movements, his hands on Stiles’ tunica. 

Derek stepped back from him, his eyes falling to Stiles’ groin, covered by layers of fabric.

“I leave for duty soon,” Derek stated. 

“Your sisters will miss you,” Stiles said, his eyes straight ahead. 

“And you?” Derek asked. 

“I matter not,” Stiles whispered, his face showing signs of his real thoughts. Derek took another step away, his body throbbing with need. 

“Fetch me wine,” Derek said. He’d drink until he could not fuck, his cock incapable. Without a word Stiles left him alone long enough for him to palm himself, imaging the feel of Stiles’ warm mouth swallowing him down. 

When Stiles returned, Derek turned to him, offering him a grape from a platter in front of them. Stiles shook his head, his brow creased. 

“Dominus--”

“Eat,” Derek demanded. Stiles opened his mouth, allowing Derek to feed him. It didn’t go unnoticed that Stiles moaned at the taste of the fresh fruit. 

“Your wine,” Stiles said as Derek offered him another. Stiles took it, this time Derek’s finger catching on his lips. As Stiles chewed, Derek let his finger linger over Stiles’ mouth. 

“Have you lain with a man?” Derek asked. 

“No, Dominus,” Stiles said, his eyes on Derek’s lips. “Is that-- is that what you wish?” Derek closed his eyes, his cock overtaking his mind as he nodded his head, pressing his thumb into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles sucked, his own eyes closing. 

As Derek pulled his thumb back, swiping it across Stiles’ wet lips, he felt him shudder, his eyes fluttering open before him. 

“Then take what is yours,” Stiles said, vehemence dripping from his voice. Instead, Derek stepped back as if slapped by him, the collar around Stiles’ neck standing out against his skin. 

“Away with you,” Derek said, pointing to the doorway. 

“Dominus--”

“If you do not leave, I will force you,” Derek bellowed. Stiles turned, leaving Derek alone in his room. Derek lifted his tunica, wrapping a hand around his erection, jacking himself off in anger. He wished to have Stiles on his knees before him, but all he could see was the blood on his own hands, the death of Stiles’ village laid before him, blood pooled at his feet as he came with a stuttering cry. 

-

Stiles pressed his back against the wall outside of Derek’s room, his head tilted towards the open doorway, the sound of Derek jacking off plain to Stiles’ ears. Stiles breathed harshly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Derek had cast him out, dismissed him instead of taking him then and there. He ached, truly, for not being able to hold his tongue. 

His outburst plagued his mind as Derek moaned within the room. Stiles did not know the reason Derek hadn’t stayed at the bathhouse as his uncle had, to relieve himself, or that he didn’t make use of the whores, but still he had wanted Stiles, admitted to it. 

He could have whatever he wished, and yet he denied himself the most basic, carnal pleasure for a reason unbeknownst to him. As Derek came, Stiles pushed away from the wall, walking away as quickly as possible, heading towards the peristylium. He himself needed release, after taking Derek’s finger into his own mouth, but there was no privacy for him anywhere. He had no nook, no cranny to go to. Derek casting him out denied him his own release, despite his feeling towards him. 

Stiles felt torn, unable to rationalize his lust versus his need for freedom and revenge. He watched the piscina, the water ripple across it as wind blew into the peristylium. Trapped within the villa, with no hope, nowhere to go, he denied himself the opportunity to be fucked. He doubted Derek would give him another chance, would probably turn to another slave, perhaps one of the twins. 

That’s why they were bought, after all. Identical, they were a commodity, their value high. Stiles was nothing compared to them, that much he knew. He should have kept his mouth shut, but he had been nervous, scared even. 

It mattered not because Derek was to leave again. He had been gone years, he said before. It could be ages before he returned again. Who knew what would happen then. 

-

The house was astir with talk of a dinner party the night before Derek was due to leave. Stiles found himself too busy to think of anything else. His days bled together as he continued his duties, being at Derek’s beck and call whenever he was in the villa. As the day approached, Derek became scarce, leaving early in the day and returning well after nightfall. 

He shrugged off Stiles’ touch as he dressed him, clenched his jaw as Stiles bathed him, and refused grapes when offered. Stiles stared down at the plate, his own mind back to Derek placing one in his mouth. 

Even now, as Stiles oiled Derek, readying him for the party, Derek said nothing to him. Stiles held his tongue, as he continued, his hands rubbing over Derek’s bare back. 

“Beg pardon, Dominus,” Scott said as he entered the room. Derek turned his attention to Scott, twisting his body while his feet stayed planted on the ground as Stiles knelt, applying the scented oil to his legs. “I’m to tell Stiles that he’s to only wear his interulea tonight.” Stiles stilled, his eyes wide as he looked to Scott, then up at Derek. 

“Very well,” Derek said with a wave of his hand. “Be gone.” Scott left without a word as Stiles knelt, his hands on Derek’s calves unmoving. “Make haste.” 

“Apologies,” Stiles said, gulping as he moved his hands up Derek’s leg, spreading the oil and rubbing it in as best he could. Tension hung in the air which wasn’t there before, knowledge of Stiles’ position that evening weighing heavy in both their minds. Stiles’ chest constricted as he thought about being almost naked before their guests for the sake of being ogled at. 

“Bathe before tonight,” Derek said, looking down at Stiles. “My uncle would be displeased otherwise.” 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said as he moved to the other leg. Stiles stopped, his hands high on Derek’s thigh when Derek reached out, holding onto Stiles’ chin, making him look up at Derek. 

“Do not show fear in the face of my uncle.” Stiles shivered, his mouth parting as he nodded his head, the feel of Derek’s finger beneath his chin sending waves through his body. “Keep to the walls as you bear wine and drink.” Stiles realized that Derek was giving him advice, ways to stay out of his sight. “Do not search out eye contact.” 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said, his eyes flicking between Derek’s eyes and his bare chest, avoiding his hanging cock between his legs, its length elongating as they spoke. Stiles closed his eyes, tilting his chin higher as Derek’s thumb moved over his lips. He added pressure to his hold on Stiles’ chin, getting him to his feet. Derek’s eyes were on his lips once more. 

“Upon my absence you’re to work in the gardens,” Derek said. Stiles’ heart lept at the mere thought of it. “When I return, I expect it to be well looked after.” 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said, smiling, his body relaxed. Excitement strummed through his body, worry about the night ahead of him forgotten. Derek’s mouth turned upward, a rare sight to see upon Stiles’ clear change in demeanor. 

“Your smile could beat the sun into submission,” Derek said, making Stiles’ cheeks redden, his eyes falling to Derek’s chest before Derek’s grip on his chin forced his gaze up once more. “A glimpse of your smile again would give me strength to return.” Stiles’ heart skipped as he dropped his mask of indifference, thinking about the garden, about being able to work in the sunlight with the plants. He closed his eyes as Derek leaned forward, capturing his lips. “Gods,” Derek said after, his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck. “Keep to the periphery tonight.” Stiles nodded his head, taking a step back from Derek so he could get his tunica that lay on the bed waiting. 

After he finished dressing Derek, Stiles cleaned himself, his hand ghosting over his brand as he did so, remembering how it pained him, how Derek captured him. His mind danced between his life before and his life as a slave. He was fed, he was safe, he had a roof over his head. He saw the people outside the walls of the villa, the poor and starving, the poverty. He wasn’t struck or lashed, but he wasn’t free, either. The collar around his neck was a stark reminder of such, that Derek could do with him as he pleased, and yet he hadn’t. 

Derek wasn’t the monster Stiles assumed him to be. He wasn’t only the Primus Pilus with a bloody gladius but a man who knew Stiles cared for the garden, wanted to work with it. 

He almost forgot about the reasoning behind him only wearing his undergarments to the party as he noticed that some of the other slaves were still in their tunicas. Dread flooded his mind as he joined the group of them, waiting to be given orders. Scott stood by him, wearing the same as he, along with the twins. 

“Do not think of it,” Scott said, leaning over in a whisper. “I have done this before. It’s mostly for show.” 

“Mostly?” Stiles asked. Scott eyed him warily, nodding once. 

“Keep eyes ahead, do not bring attention.” 

“That’s what Dominus said,” Stiles said, looking down at his body. 

“Peter?”

“No, Derek,” Stiles said. Scott gave him an odd look, but said nothing. 

-

Derek found small talk to be unbearable. Each guest said the same thing about his bravery, talking of the Republic and its conquests. They offered him their daughters in hopes of him taking them for a wife. Derek had enough long before he felt the wine he’d been poured, mostly by Stiles who weaved in and out of the crowd, unnoticed by the guests. He kept Stiles in his periphery, making sure he wasn’t taken into one of the rooms of the villa. 

It wasn’t until Derek was deep in conversation with a tribune that he realized he couldn’t see Stiles anywhere. Without causing attention to his sudden worry, Derek glanced around the room without breaking in conversation. He saw no sign of Stiles. 

“Pardon, Tribune,” Derek said, putting a hand to the tribune’s shoulder. “I have to see to something.”

“Of course,” he said, dismissing Derek with a wave of a hand. Derek gave him a smile that fell as soon as he turned around, searching for Stiles. The party was in full swing, with wine enough to spare, only the best foods offered. He walked by all of it, looking into his sisters’ rooms first, then his own. They had people in them in various states of undress, reveling in the party, but none of them were Stiles. 

He looked for his uncle, finding him talking with a magistrate. 

“Pardon, Uncle,” Derek said, interrupting them. Peter raised his brow but didn’t reprimand him. “Have you seen Stiles?” Peter smiled, nodding once as he gestured towards the back of the house. 

“He was asked for specifically--”

Derek walked away from his uncle, his heart beat, threatening to burst from his chest as he neared the back of the house. He stepped into a room, relief and anger coursing through him as he laid eyes upon them, Stiles with his eyes closed, mouth open as a senator had a hand around his middle, hand dangerously close to his interulea, mouth on his bare shoulder. 

“Senator,” Derek said, interrupting them. Stiles’ eyes shot open, his skin crimson as he looked away from Derek. The senator looked up, his hand tightening around Stiles, holding him close. Stiles grunted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I believe my uncle is looking for you.” 

“Nonsense,” he said, groping Stiles. Derek reined in his anger because Stiles was his slave, his property. 

“Senator, I ask you to let go of my slave.” 

“He was given to me for the evening, I’ve the gods’ graces.” 

“You haven’t mine,” Derek said, stepping forward. 

“You’re out of turn, Primus Pilus,” the man sneered. “How would it look, you denying me your hospitality?” Derek looked to Stiles, his face a mask as he saw how upset Stiles looked, his own face unable to keep up pretenses. 

“I deny you nothing,” Derek said. “As a hospitality I have opened my doors for you, but you would deny me, a Primus Pilus, my own slave the night before I set off for battle?” Derek asked. The senator weighed Derek’s words, letting Stiles go with a shove. Stiles steadied himself, keeping on his feet as he walked towards Derek. 

“Do not think this is our final meeting,” the senator said to Stiles, his eyes on Derek. “Peter Hale is a friend, and I shall visit often.” Derek clenched his jaw as the senator left them alone in the room. Derek stood there in silence, his actions weighing heavily in his mind. 

“Perhaps he wouldn’t have been too harsh,” Stiles said, his fists at his side as he stared down at the floor. “But I fear now that his return would mean his hand to be less than gentle.” 

“That was not my intention,” Derek said, stepping forward. Stiles shied away from the comfort, his head turning away from Derek. 

“You think me naive?” Stiles asked, his gaze finally rising to meet Derek’s eye. “You caused offense and I will be the one to pay for it.” Derek’s heart wrenched in his chest because he knew it to be the truth. When he left at sunrise, he’d be leaving Stiles alone. His only solace is that the walls of his villa were a sanctuary, that nothing would befall him except the senator’s wandering cock. 

“You are my slave, I will not have him take you from behind without my consent,” Derek said, his anger apparent. 

“With or without consent matters not,” Stiles said, his face contorting as he gripped his collar. “For my mind is sound. As you leave, the gods will forsake me once more.” 

“You do not believe in my gods,” Derek replied. 

“And yet they still find ways to bend me over and fuck me,” Stiles said, gesturing with his hands. “So do with me as you will, for I’m sure it will be gentler than I will have in your absence.” Derek froze, his eyes wide at the implication. 

“That was not my intention,” Derek hissed, stepping closer so they could talk candidly, while guests walked by, sounds of the villa’s festivities echoing off the walls, laughter and moans of pleasure mixing. 

“Do you think the senator a fool?” Stiles asked him, his eyes narrowed. “That he would not come back to gaze at us, to see you fucking me into submission? You denied him, surely--” 

Derek kissed Stiles to quiet him. He grasped Stiles’ arms, aching to touch him. He didn’t know when he’d return, how long he’d be at war this time. Surprisingly, Stiles’ mouth opened willingly for him, his tongue tasting of fruit. Derek savored it, breathing him in. 

“You will be safe,” Derek told Stiles, as well as himself. “I will make a sacrifice to the gods,” he said as Stiles held on to his tunica, holding tight to it as Derek mouthed at his neck. “You will be safe.” 

“If the gods will it,” Stiles moaned. Unable to handle the sound, Derek twisted Stiles around so that his back was pressed against Derek’s chest, his hand around Stiles’ middle, mirroring the senator’s position, with a hand over Stiles’ neck, his head turned so their mouths could meet as before. Stiles’ tongue darted out of his mouth, seeking Derek’s as his eyes closed, his ass pressing against Derek’s aching cock. Derek cupped Stiles’ groin, holding it as Stiles’ hands slid up Derek’s thighs, lifting his tunica to reveal his hardening cock. The feel of Stiles against him was almost unbearable as Derek fondled him, moaning into Stiles’ mouth. 

“The stars have aligned at last,” Peter’s voice filtered into the small room, bringing Derek back to the present. “My nephew wants to wet his cock, and not just any whore will fulfill that task.” Peter stepped forward with a raised hand. “By all means, continue. I’m sure it would be quite a sight to behold.” 

Derek let go of him, though Stiles’ hands remained in place, his nails digging into Derek’s thighs. 

“When I was told of your outburst, of stating your need of _our_ slave I became curious.” 

“Surely the party is in need of its host,” Derek said, his voice calmer than he knew himself to be. 

“Your presence is required as well. Wet cock later, I need you to socialize. This family needs it.” With one final look to Stiles, Peter walked from the room, leaving them alone. 

“Jupiter’s cock,” Stiles spat. 

“Stay hidden,” Derek said, pointing to the ground. “Until the final guest leaves, just stay hidden.” 

“And be whipped for it later?” Stiles asked, wide-eyed. 

“That’s an order,” Derek shouted. 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said, lifting his chin, his lips red and swollen from Derek’s mouth. Derek left him there, seeking out another wine bearer as he returned to the party. 

It was an hour before dawn before the last guest said goodbye, and Derek was dead on his feet. He didn’t have time to sleep before reporting for duty, let alone time to find Stiles. He walked into his room, weary and in need of a nap. 

“Dominus,” Stiles said from where he sat huddled in the corner of the room, his knees pulled up to his chest. Halfway onto his cubile, his bed, Derek stopped. 

“Come,” Derek said, laying down. Stiles stood, walking over to him. “I leave within the hour.” 

“I know,” Stiles said, his voice quiet. “Do you wish to bathe?”

“I wish for you to lie with me.” 

Stiles did so without further instruction, getting into the cubile with Derek, his back pressed against Derek’s chest. Derek draped an arm over him, allowing his eyes to close. 

“Wake me.” 

“Yes, Dominus.” 

\- 

The house seemed empty without Derek there. At the first meal without him, Stiles found that his part in it was lessened, his wine jug remained full. He spent his days in the garden, just as Derek said he would, tending to it, watering it, fertilizing and pruning. He found it liberating, being in charge of the garden. Stiles felt as though it was his to take care of, his duty given to him by Derek. 

As he lay awake at night, looking at the stars, they not only reminded him of home but of Derek as well. Somewhere across the land Derek looked up at the very same stars that Stiles wished upon night after night. 

There was no way for Stiles to describe his feelings because the confusion about them made no sense. Derek, by the hand of the Republic, killed his family. He himself put Stiles in chains, forced him into slavery and yet Stiles yearned for him to return from war. He wished to be touched by him again, to be close. It sickened Stiles that he felt that way, but even in Derek’s absence he knew his feelings to be true. 

After a week in the peristylium, Stiles was summoned before Peter. His hands were dirty, his face red from the sun, skin golden and sweaty. He was already stripped down to his interulae because of the heat, as were the other male slaves, but in front of Peter he felt naked. Peter’s silent gaze befell him as he reclined with a wine cup in his hand. When he saw Stiles enter, Peter put the cup down, then stood up. 

“On bended knee, slave,” Peter said. Stiles knelt before him, his mind blank for a reason that Peter would call upon him. His hand lay atop Stiles’ head, his thumb caressing him as he looked down at Stiles. “To see such a face smudged in dirt is a blasphemy. I would see you remain clean.”

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles whispered. 

“I would have you remain by my side.” Stiles said nothing as he stared at him, his mouth unable to move. “What say you to that?” 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said automatically, for he had no right to say otherwise. 

“Bathe, then return to me.” Stiles stood, bowing down low before walking away, towards the villa’s balnea in order to wash off the dirt. 

There he found Scott and Allison, locked in a couple’s embrace, panting with their mouths open in silent moans. 

“I’m to be Peter’s slave,” Stiles said by way of interruption as he shoved down his interulae, stepping into the water without preamble. 

“You are already as such,” Allison said, unable to keep from moaning as Scott thrust into her. 

“Not in the same meaning, much as you two are joined. I’m to be fucked,” Stiles spat as he scraped dirt and oil off of himself with a strigil. He dug the tool against his skin, wondering if it was possible to die by the dull blade. 

The thought of Peter thrusting against him made him sick. 

“You say that as if the same hasn’t been done to all of us,” Allison said as Scott pulled out of her, his cock dripping from between her thighs. “He bedded me the first night, the brand still hot on my shoulder.” 

“Do not think to fight, he relishes it,” Scott said as he pulled on his own interulae. “Unless that is what you wish.” 

“I do not wish for any of it,” Stiles said as he splashed water on his face. “The gods do not heed the wishes of slaves, just like any other Roman.” 

“Come to me later,” Allison said, putting a hand to Stiles’ shoulder. “And I will take care of you.” Stiles gave her a curt nod before he dressed himself, then headed back into the main part of the villa. 

Peter was in his cubiculum, waiting. 

“To come when summoned despite fear in your eyes, that causes stir,” Peter said, a smirk appearing across his lips. “Leave my side without consent and be whipped for it.” 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said, not allowing himself even a trembling lip as Peter took hold of him, his nose against Stiles’ neck as he breathed against him, his hand already cupping Stiles’ groin. 

“Make use of your mouth,” Peter hissed, forcing Stiles to his knees. Stiles balked as he lifted Peter’s tunica, revealing heavy cock, dripping with precome. Tentatively, Stiles licked, sucking at the head of it, making Peter moan. He tasted tangy, of salt and piss. Stiles clenched his fists as Peter forced his cock down Stiles’ throat, hitting the back of it, making him gag before he pulled out. Tears threatened to fall, but only from the feel of Peter in his mouth as Stiles worked him, adding a hand around the base of his cock to help. As Peter spilled himself within Stiles mouth, he held tight to Stiles’ hair, keeping him in Stiles’ mouth, forcing him to swallow. 

“Your place is on your knees before me,” Peter said, his tone dripping with want. “That mouth is mine and mine alone.” 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said, his voice hoarse as Peter wiped Stiles’ mouth with his hand. 

 

Stiles spent the day kneeling by Peter’s side, his hands on his thighs as visitors came to call. His knees ached, much like his jaw, but he remained unmoving. The senator paid a call to Peter, his eyes falling on Stiles multiple times. He only looked to the ground as they spoke of him. 

“In Derek’s absence he has become somewhat of import to me,” Peter said fondly, placing a hand on Stiles’ head. “I fear I’m not fond of sharing.” 

“One would think not, with finery such as him. I’d not want idle hands-- or cocks-- wandering. I bear you no ill will.” Stiles didn’t know why, but he felt relief that he would not be passed around, at least. Peter was enough. 

At dinner, Stiles was given a small pillow to kneel on, to keep his knees from bruising. 

That night, Stiles tried to escape. He hadn’t thought of it even the day he arrived, but without Derek there, he didn’t see a reason to remain. Perhaps Peter wouldn’t be lenient, perhaps he would have Stiles killed for running. 

It would be a better fate, he thought. 

He was wrong. 

Stiles barely made it two blocks before he was found. He was brought back to the villa, kicking and screaming. Forced to his knees in front of Peter, his head pressed so close to the ground by one of the guards that Stiles could lick the stone floor, he spat. 

“I do not wish to mark your back or face,” Peter said, sighing. “Instead, I will make it so you cannot leave.” Stiles shook, not in fear, but in anger at himself for not thinking more clearly. He screamed when his feet were struck with a hollowed stick. Again and again it struck him, his eyes watering as his feet grew number with each thwack. 

His tears stained the stone floor, his hands holding him upright as the sound echoed off the walls with no end in sight. 

Once the guard was through, Peter lifted Stiles’ chin with his hand, his eyes piercing through Stiles. 

“Leave my side again and I take your cock from you.” 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said with shaky breath, barely audible. He knew he could not stand, so he did not move after they left him there, sobbing on the ground until daybreak. 

-

Not a day went by when Derek did not think of home. Unlike before, when it had been a luxury to think back on it, now it pained him. He left Stiles without a kind word. He did what he could, giving him the gardens to look after, but Derek felt as though that wasn’t enough. 

His letters from his sisters said nothing of Stiles, which was to be expected since they neither lived at the villa nor knew how desperate Derek was of word. He couldn’t ask them, for fear of it standing out. He never asked of slaves in the past, and asking now would only cause even more attention to him. 

Derek spared his thoughts of Stiles until nightfall, with the stars high above his head. He walked from his tent, admiring them from a far as Stiles would do. It felt as though it was his connection to him as they flickered overhead. 

If Derek thought he was done with war before, now he was completely numb from it. His gladius stayed at his side as he rode on horseback, giving orders as he had to do. With every thrust of his blade, he thought of the lives he had ruined. 

He returned to his tent, wine in hand to dull his mind, keep the blood on his hands from ruining him completely. At night he found comfort in his own hand, thinking of Stiles and cursing his name as he came. 

His return to Rome would be a relief to him, though he dared not hope it to be soon. With every dawn, he tried in vain to be the man others expected him to be. He would not fail to be Primus Pilus Derek Hale, no matter how much his heart was no longer in it. 

Duty was all he had. 

-

“That’s it,” Peter said, his hand against the back of Stiles’ head as he pushed his cheek against the cubile. Stiles moaned against it, his legs spread apart by Peter’s thighs, his cock sliding against Stiles’ ass as he dipped his fingers in oil. “Do not hold tongue.” 

“Please,” Stiles said as Peter breached him, pressing inwards with his finger. 

“I could ruin you,” Peter said against Stiles’ back, his teeth scraping over his skin. “Rip you apart.” Stiles struggled, though Scott warned him against it. With an arm, Peter pinned him against the cubile, fucking into him with two fingers, then three before Stiles was ready for it. 

There was nothing to be done. Stiles closed his eyes, thinking of anything that took him from Peter’s bed. 

The feel of Peter’s cock against his entrance, made Stiles gasp. He entered him with short, hard thrusts, his fingers bruising as Stiles tried to scoot away from him to no avail. 

“Mine,” Peter said with a thrust. “Your mouth, your ass, your cock.” 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles said with a pained cry as Peter deflowered him, taking him the way Derek had wished to. Stiles grasped at the corners of the cubile, wondering if Derek would have been just as harsh, stinging as Peter. As Peter came within him, his come dribbling down between Stiles’ spread thighs, Stiles wasn’t so sure Derek would have been any kinder. 

-

Stiles barely walked because of how much it pained him. Kneeling hurt as well, but for a different reason. Peter kept him sore, numb all over to the point that his stinging feet remained the grounding factor that reminded Stiles that he was, in fact, still alive. 

Peter wasn’t lying when he said he wanted Stiles by his side at all times. Whether it be in the triclinium where Peter ate his meals, or in his tablinium where he met guests and oversaw the family’s day to day duties. He spent most of his day, when not at the thermae, in the tablinium. It wasn’t uncommon for him to take Stiles there, over the table itself, or for him to come down Stiles’ throat from his seat while Stiles remained on his knees. 

Unlike Allison or Scott, or any of the other slaves who went about their other duties, Stiles had no others. A sex slave and nothing more, his only time alone was at night or when Peter went to the thermae, Stiles’ favorite time of day. 

He had a few short hours of reprieve where he spent his time in the peristylium, attempting to take care of the garden. It was hard, standing because of his bruised feet, which remained that way by repeat sessions with the head guard every few days, making sure that Stiles remembered that running was not an option. 

At night, Stiles was to stay in Peter’s room, but he rarely did as he was told. He sat, staring up at the stars, wondering both if Derek would return and that he didn’t want him to. He didn’t want his dream, where Derek held him as he slept the day he left, to be burst by him returning and taking Stiles as Peter had. 

He’d rather keep his memory of Derek sleeping against him than have Derek himself return. 

Every morning, just before dawn, Stiles slipped back into Peter’s room, curling up on the floor, then waited for him to wake up for the day. 

Now, Stiles knelt in the tablinium as Peter wrote a letter. Scott stood by the desk, waiting for Peter to finish so that he could take the letter to the courier. Stiles stared at the floor by Scott’s feet, his mind wandering until Scott walked away, supposedly with the letter in hand. 

“Today is the munus,” Peter said with a smile, his fingers carding through Stiles’ hair. “Have you ever seen a gladiator fight?”

“No, Dominus,” Stiles said, his face impassive. 

“Today you will.” 

Peter travelled on a palanquin, slaves carrying him slowly through the streets of Rome. Stiles walked behind, a guard with him though each step hurt. It felt like a lifetime before they reached the arena, shouts already coming from within. 

Peter shared a box with other patricians, all of which Stiles recognized from their visits to the villa. Stiles took his place by Peter’s side, without a pillow to kneel on. He could barely see what was happening, only if he craned his neck, but he didn’t have an interest in men being killed by beasts, ravaged in the arena. Peter had his wine in hand, laughing with his fellow Romans as Stiles willed himself to keep from wincing. His knees, his feet, everything ached. 

As the hours passed, it went from men fighting beasts to executions, which Stiles couldn’t bear to watch. Peter’s attention remained on the action below, barely paying Stiles any mind. It was a relief, though the sounds of death and the cheers of the crowd made Stiles’ stomach churn. It wasn’t until the real fights began did it catch Stiles’ attention. 

He lost himself in the fights, craning his neck in order to see, finding himself rooting for one or the other as time went on. Peter’s hand on his neck didn’t even sway him as he watched on. 

“I heard tell of Primus Pilus Derek Hale’s return from battle,” a patrician said between fights. Peter nodded his head, giving them a smile that Stiles knew to be fake. 

“I got word of it just this morning,” Peter said. “A letter arrived from him, bearing the good news.”

“Such good fortune.” 

“The gods are surely with him,” Peter said, his hand clasped tight on Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ heartbeat in his chest gave him pause. Derek hadn’t been gone but a few months, nothing near the two years of his last absence, according to Scott. 

“Perhaps a welcome party, this time,” someone suggested. 

“That could be arranged,” Peter said with a smile, turning his attention back to the action. Stiles, no longer interested, looked to his hands which were at his thighs. Derek returning could mean nothing to him, with Peter being the paterfamilias, the head of the house, Derek wouldn’t have a say over him. 

It would be worse, seeing Derek day in and day out and knowing it wouldn’t been as it was before. Stiles’ hope plummeted, and as they made their way back to the villa, he could barely keep up with the entourage. 

That night when Peter fucked him, Stiles didn’t have the energy to do anything but lie there. 

-

Preparations for Derek’s return had the house busier than normal, though Stiles had no part in it. On the day of Derek’s supposed arrival, Peter held Stiles down by his hand on Stiles’ neck. 

“To who do you belong?” Peter asked him. 

“You, Dominus,” Stiles said as he gasped for air. 

“Do you need a reminder?” Peter asked as Stiles shook his head. Peter’s kisses were nothing like Stiles remembered Derek’s to be. They were a distant memory, now, but he believed them to be gentler, with less biting and force. 

As Peter pushed Stiles against the desk in his tablinium, Stiles noticed a small blade atop it. He moaned as Peter pressed against him, his cock heavy and waiting to be shoved into him. Stiles grasped onto the blade as Peter thrust into him without so much as a finger of preparation. Stiles screamed, clutching at the blade, letting it cut his palm. Stiles shut his eyes, the dry shove of Peter’s cock sparking something within him. 

Stiles turned his body, enough that he could press the blade against Peter’s neck. 

“What--”

“Hold fucking tongue,” Stiles said as he stood, one hand on the back of Peter’s neck, the other with the blade pressed to his throat. Stiles was sore, his legs trembling from remaining on his feet as Peter’s eyes widened. “For what spills next from your mouth will be your last.” 

“You’ll be executed,” Peter hissed as he leaned into the blade. 

“I care not,” Stiles said, his mouth mere inches from Peter’s. “I only care to have your blood spilled upon this floor.” 

“Stiles,” a voice all but foreign to Stiles’ ears called out, bringing him out of his trance. He turned his head to see Derek standing there, in his uniform, helmet in his hands while he was completely naked with a blade in his hand. 

He was going to be killed by Derek, and that thought alone had Stiles hesitate. 

“Derek,” Stiles whispered. At Stiles’ usage of his name, Derek stepped forward, placing his helmet on the desk. 

“You’ll die for this,” Peter said. “Turning against your Dominus is punishable--” Stiles slit Peter’s throat, feeling the slide of the blade across tender flesh. 

“You’re not my Dominus,” Stiles said, his hands covered in Peter’s blood as he fell to the ground, clutching at his neck. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, pulling Stiles away from Peter, taking the blade from him. Derek’s hands on him, hard and calloused, made Stiles laugh hysterically as he watched Peter die on the ground, his blood pooling. Derek threw the blade down, grabbing Stiles’ face with his hands. “Speak with haste before I call for the guards.” 

“You left me here,” Stiles said. “But I freed myself of his hell.” 

“The gods be damned, Stiles, tell me.”

“Do you not see? I’m but a sex slave now. My knees bruised from position upon ground, by feet whipped to keep me from running, my ass--” Derek’s lips on his quieted him. 

“You will not fall for this,” Derek said. 

“I’ll be crucified,” Stiles said, tears staining his face as he placed his hands on Derek’s armour. 

“Guards! An intruder!” Derek shouted, his eyes locked with Stiles. “Call for a patrol, search the streets.” 

“Yes, Dominus,” they said without pause. 

“A thief in the villa, had a blade, you were in the corner of the room.”

“No,” Stiles said. “His blood is on my hands--”

“You came to him, kneel down in his blood,” Derek said, pushing Stiles down into it. 

“No,” Stiles said, his palm already in it. 

“Stiles,” Derek ordered as Roman guards entered the house. “You, search for a man with a red cloak, hair black. “He killed Peter Hale.” Stiles stood there, his hands covered in blood, but kneeling in it, his body naked of clothing. 

“The slave must be question--”

“Did I not say who did it?” Derek asked. “I return home from war to find my uncle murdered in his own tablinium and you wish to question me?” Derek’s voice bellowed through the villa, his commanding air apparent as they took in his status. 

“Yes, Primus Pilus,” one guard said with a bow. The other slaves of the house all gathered, watching the commotion. It was Scott who helped Stiles to his feet, taking him to the balnea to be cleaned and clothed. As Stiles turned to look at Derek, he found his face to be unreadable. 

-

Derek watched as slaves cleaned up his uncle’s blood off the floor. It would be stained, a reminder of what happened, that much Derek knew. He hadn’t changed, still in his uniform as he spoke with guards. They questioned Stiles, once he was cleaned and clothed, wearing a new looking tunica. 

As Stiles reiterated the specifics Derek had shouted to the guard earlier, his teeth worrying at his lip, Derek noticed that Stiles had issue standing. Derek closed his eyes as he crossed his arms. He left Stiles in the care of his uncle, asking him to work the gardens. Stiles’ words, of him being a sex slave, hit Derek hard. 

He wanted nothing more than to be alone with Stiles, to speak with him. Though weary from his journey, Derek stayed with him throughout the questioning. When Stiles was released and the body taken, Derek led Stiles into his own room, the last place he had seen Stiles months before. 

“Be seated,” Derek said, hating to see Stiles in such pain by merely standing. Stiles knelt before him, his hands falling to his thighs, his head bowed low. Derek could see the bruises on Stiles’ knees, but the ones on the bottoms of his feet were what caught his attention. “Explain.” 

“I ask for nothing but for you to kill me,” Stiles said, his hands now on the ground as he bent over. 

“Explain why feet are bruised,” Derek demanded. 

“I ran,” Stiles admitted, making Derek take a step back. “The first night, after Peter bedded me. I ran.” 

“And how long after my departure did he bed you?”

“One week.” 

“Your reason for killing him?” Derek asked, his voice hushed. 

“Upon your return, I would remain his. He wouldn’t allow you to-- I was his, not yours, Dominus.” 

“You killed the paterfamilias to the Hales because he wouldn’t allow you to be near me?” Derek asked as he knelt before Stiles. Stiles nodded his head, making eye contact with him. 

“The torture of seeing you,” Stiles gasped as Derek clasped his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. “But doing nothing--”

“It is done,” Derek said, wrapping his arms around Stiles for the first time, holding him. “The gods willing, it is done.” 

-

News spread of Peter Hale’s death and the controversy surrounding it. Derek Hale returns from war to find his uncle slain by a thief while one of the house slaves is found covered in blood by their Dominus’ side. If a slave killed their Dominus, the punishment wasn’t only their own death, but the execution of every slave in said household for allowing such a grievous thing to happen. 

To allay suspicion, Derek had Stiles whipped in the courtyard for allowing a thief to get close enough to slit Peter’s throat. A slave should have protected their Dominus, and Derek knew if Romans saw him inflicting his own punishment upon Stiles, then they would not look to him for the murder. 

Whipping Stiles was the single hardest thing Derek had ever done. He counted the lashes out loud, watching Stiles arch his back away from him with each blow, crying out in pain, his back an open wound, blood pouring down it. 

Afterwards, Lydia took care of him, tending to the wounds as Derek watched, not leaving Stiles’ side as he slept. He was _the_ Dominus now, new head of the household. His sisters were in mourning, though he could not join them. They had a bust made, adding it to the line of their family that was on display around the atrium. Derek shifted how the house was run, since he had no say before now. 

The house seemed so empty, with him being the only Roman in it, but his sisters visited him often for midday meals and often stayed well into the afternoon. 

Derek kept his distance from Stiles as he healed, except at night as he slept on a pallet by the peristylium. They had much to discuss, but Derek didn’t know how to breach the subject with him without forcing Stiles to speak as his Dominus. 

Scott, newly appointed house accountant, found out that Peter had been giving Roman families bribes as well as taking them, buying friendship and threatening others by going through all his paperwork. Some of the Romans came by, asking to continue such a patronage. They wanted the Hale family status, and Peter had been so kind as to take a stipend to be seen with them. 

Derek refused. 

He was not his uncle and did not socialize as much as he or feel the need to keep up appearances. He and Scott worked together, righting the books. It took weeks to go through everything, where he barely stopped to eat or sleep, but it kept him busy. 

One morning, it surprised Derek to find Stiles at breakfast, his back against the wall as he waited for instruction, his face impassive. Derek had paperwork to go through still, but he found his mind to be elsewhere as he looked to Stiles’ feet. 

“Standing upon bruised feet is unnecessary,” Derek said as he held himself up by one elbow as he reclined. 

“Would you rather I kneel, Dominus?” Stiles asked, his tone biting. Derek looked to his knees, bruises fading in time. 

“Not,” Derek said after a time, sighing as he looked to the other slaves in the room, four of them in total. “Leave us.” His eyes locked on Stiles, making it known that he was to remain. The others left without a word. “Turn.” 

Stiles pushed off the wall, turning around to show Derek his back, the scars would be thin because of the whip, but they were still red, angry lashes. The weather grew cooler, but Stiles remained in his interulae so that fabric did not rub against his back. 

“Are you fit for work?” Derek asked, picking at the plate of food before him. 

“I am fit to stand,” Stiles said, rocking back and forth on his feet, wiggling his toes. “Small accomplishments.” The tension in the room could be sliced through with his gladius, Derek was sure of it. Silence filled the room. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat. 

“They’ve given up finding my uncle’s killer,” Derek said, his eyes searching for Stiles’, which looked downward towards his feet. 

“They won’t if they look not within these walls,” Stiles whispered. 

“These walls are meant to keep us safe,” Derek said. “Our own sanctuary.”

“What of us if you go to war?” Stiles asked. 

“I am done with war,” Derek said. “I’m the paterfamilias. I will remain here, with you.” Stiles exhaled a breath, nodding his head in understanding. “I wish you to step forward.” Stiles did so without preamble. 

“What would the Dominus have me do now?” Stiles asked, his stomach muscles visibly clenching as he stood. 

“Do you not know?” Derek asked. Stiles bit his lip before he bent forward, brushing his lips over Derek’s in a chaste kiss, his hand resting upon Derek’s shoulder. It was Stiles who deepened the kiss, opening his mouth so that his tongue would press against Derek’s willing mouth. Derek held onto Stiles’ wrist, stroking his skin as they continued. Stiles moved his hand down to Derek’s chest, as their kisses went from chaste to desperate. Derek slid Stiles’ hand down further until Stiles jerked it away, stepping back from him. 

Derek’s cock’s presence was clear by the tenting of his tunica, his need raw within him as Stiles backed away from him, his own interulae showing Derek that he, too, sought relief. 

“Pardon,” Stiles said, his head shaking. He walked from the room, his hand over his mouth, leaving Derek hard where he lay. 

-

After having been ignored for weeks, Stiles paced around Derek’s cubiculum. Derek hadn’t spoken to him, even looked at him since he killed Peter. Stiles had been ready to work, wanting to work, but all Derek seemed to want was his body, just as Peter had. 

Stiles felt ill to his stomach as he paced, happy to be able to walk freely at last. Derek spent all his time with Scott going over papers; he hadn’t noticed that Stiles had taken to the garden, but perhaps that was how it should be. There were over twenty slaves in the villa, and Stiles was but one. He simply overthought how much Derek cared for him. 

Though his heart ached, Stiles knew it to be better than to have Peter alive and Derek out of arm's reach. So Stiles tended to the garden, humming to himself as he did so. One of the twins, Ethan, overtook Stiles’ duties in taking care of Derek. Stiles tried not to be jealous, but he found it difficult despite the fact that he was happy to work in the peristylium. 

One night, after Stiles’ back had healed enough so that he could wear a tunica once more, he found himself trimming leaves well after dark, using the light of the moon to see. He was lost in thought about his father when his light was blocked. Stiles looked up to find Derek standing over him with his arms crossed. Stiles stood, dusting himself off as he awaited Derek’s command. 

“Do you wish to be sold?” Derek asked. Stiles blanched. 

“No, Dominus,” Stiles stammered. “Do you wish me to leave you?”

“Not as such,” Derek said. “The opposite. I wish you to be by my side.” Stiles looked straight at Derek’s chest, his own heart beating fast at Derek’s words, how similar they were to Peter’s. “Your heart remains impervious unless one is in the peristylium.” Stiles smiled at Derek’s implication, but it fell quickly. 

“My heart is not so,” Stiles said, his brow furrowed. “I made it clear in my actions, for words are merely as such. Action speaks louder, especially if from the heart.” 

“Speak plainly,” Derek said, his breath hot against Stiles’ neck. 

“I wished to be yours, so I grasped blade in hand to free myself,” Stiles said, his eyes closing as he reached for Derek’s tunica, gripping it tight. “Only to have heart break when you would not have me back.” 

“I thought you to be indifferent,” Derek confessed. “I kept away to give you space. You left me--”

“If you feel for me,” Stiles said, his voice shaking under the hope that perhaps Derek did, in fact, care for him. “Then I ask that you do not ask that of me.” 

“Stiles--”

“I have been tainted, stained and used. If you touch me I wish only to think of you and not of him. That cannot be.” 

“My hands will not be tempted again,” Derek said, his voice all but lost as Stiles kissed him, moaning against the feel of his lips, nothing like Peter’s. It was short, but left Stiles feeling lightheaded. 

“Then I will not leave your side,” Stiles murmured, kissing him once more. 

-

Derek was true to his word, no matter how difficult it became in having Stiles so near to him but unable to touch him as he wished to do. Stiles became his secretary, keeping track of meetings and social gatherings that which Derek would attend. Where Derek went, Stiles did too. They went to the thermae, to watch gladiators fight, to house parties, and to the theatre. He didn’t know what else he could do, except remain chaste. 

The thought of fucking someone else turned Derek’s stomach, though the thought of hurting Stiles made him feel like a monster. He woke at night with the feel of blood on his hands, of those he killed, only to find Stiles in the room with him, rushing to Derek’s side in comfort. 

He woke in the mornings, aching for release that he gave over to himself, stroking his flesh until he came panting, thinking of Stiles and no one else. 

Stiles spent the mornings in the peristylium, keeping it in order despite the time of year as winter approached. Derek watched him, sometimes, enjoying the look of calm upon Stiles’ face as he ate and relaxed his morning away. 

In the afternoon, upon being buried in paperwork, Derek cleared his throat. Stiles looked up from where he sat, hovering over a ledger kept by Peter while Scott sat at a small desk nearby, writing. 

“Saturnalia is approaching, I want preparations started so that we can celebrate it.” 

“But you are one man,” Stiles said.

“But nothing,” Derek said with a wave of his hand. “A feast for you all, a day where we are but equals. I would not deny you that.” Stiles smiled at Derek, giving him warm relief. 

“Saturnalia will be a day not forgotten, then,” Stiles said before he turned his attention back to the ledger. Saturnalia was a religious holiday celebrated by Roman slaves where their roles were reversed for a short time. They could feast, gamble, and had the freedom of speech. Things that were otherwise forbidden could be done during Saturnalia. 

The day itself wasn’t too different than any other. The slaves had to keep the house going, but instead of making a dinner for one, or a few if Derek had guests, they made enough for all of them to feast upon the same opulence that Derek dined on day after day. They each wore a cap on their heads, a pilleus, to signify their freedom for the day. 

Derek ate after the slaves, keeping to his paperwork as to not disturb them in their revelry. Stiles, though, entered the tablinum, interrupting Derek’s thoughts. 

“Your freedom of the day means you do not have to be by my side,” Derek pointed out. Stiles shook his head as he approached. 

“My freedom means simply that I wish to be by your side,” Stiles said as he stood over Derek where he sat, his legs straddling Derek’s, hands on Derek’s shoulders. 

“You wish it?” Derek asked, his hands hovering over Stiles’ waist, hidden by his tunica. Stiles nodded his head as he cupped Derek’s face, placing a kiss upon his forehead before capturing Derek’s lips with his own in a heated kiss. Stiles sank down so that he sat on Derek’s lap, facing him as their kiss deepened. Derek held onto Stiles, grasping at his sides as Stiles moved against him, rolling his hips. 

“I wish to speak your name,” Stiles said between kisses. Derek groaned as he mouthed at Stiles’ neck, his hands gripping tight to his ass as his erection rubbed against the fabric of his tunica. 

“Speak freely,” Derek gasped. 

“Derek,” Stiles moaned. “Derek,” he said again as held Derek’s face in his hands once more, capturing his lips, their mouths crashing together. “Bed me.”

“Do you speak clearly?” Derek asked, his hand pushing at Stiles’ tunica, his palm pressing against bare skin. Stiles’ back arched against Derek as he ground his hips down against Derek’s cock. 

“Yes,” Stiles said, his fingers digging into Derek’s hair as Derek licked up his neck. “Freely speech is given. I wish to be fucked.” 

“I pray then,” Derek said, hoisting Stiles and himself up so that Stiles’ legs wrapped around him, clinging to him. “Let us make haste.” 

“Oil is set in your cubiculum,” Stiles said as he bit Derek’s lip, sucking on it as Derek groped his ass, leading them the short distance to his cubile. Stiles moaned as Derek let him down gently onto the padded bed, his tunica pushed up his chest, revealing the length of his hard cock through the thin fabric of his interulae. 

“Again,” Derek said, his hand hovering over Stiles’ cock. “Permission again.”

“Put hand on cock,” Stiles begged, his own hand spread across his bare stomach, finger ghosting along the edge of the fabric. Derek palmed at Stiles’ length, stroking him through the fabric for only a moment before ridding Stiles of it, sliding it down his thighs. 

Derek took Stiles’ cock in his hand, fondling his balls as he licked at it, tasting him for the first time. Stiles’ back arched as he put his fingers in Derek’s hair, tugging as Derek took Stiles into his mouth fully, reveling in the feel of him, heavy in his mouth. 

As Derek worked him, he pressed a finger against Stiles’ entrance in preparation. Stiles clung to him, moving his hips against Derek’s slicked finger. 

“Your touch sets my body aflame,” Stiles gasped. “Do it again.” Derek moved his finger within him, fucking him with it, and then another as Stiles writhed in pleasure beneath his grasp. “Wet cock, fuck me.” 

“Do not rush me,” Derek said as he mouthed at Stiles’ stomach. “For I have waited an eternity to touch you.” 

“An eternity I set forth unknowingly denying myself of such pleasure,” Stiles panted as Derek oiled his cock, stroking himself before lining himself up against Stiles’ entrance. Stiles hooked his legs around Derek, his ankles against Derek’s thighs forcing Derek inward. Derek eased himself in, holding on to Stiles’ waist as he watched himself disappear within Stiles. He rocked his hips gently, his eyes closing as he fucked him. “I am not clay that is so easily broken.”

“A precious thing, still,” Derek said as he kissed Stiles, thrusting into him. “A rare gift.” 

“Sentiment is not lost,” Stiles said with a smile as wide as Derek had ever seen it. Stiles moved against him, rolling his hips as Derek’s pace quickened, his body shaking as he came within him. Stiles moaned, his hand dropping to his own cock as Derek continued to move, feeling his come fill Stiles. Stiles came shortly after Derek pulled out his spent cock, rubbing it along Stiles’ thighs. Derek bent over, licking up Stiles’ mess before kissing his open hole, lapping at the dripping come, warm and sticky from inside him. Stiles pulled Derek towards him, their mouths meeting in a lewd kiss, come mixing in their mouths as they both tasted each other. 

“A thing I will never forget,” Stiles said against Derek’s lips. “One which overshadows all others.” 

“You are to be mine,” Derek said softly. For once, Stiles did not cringe at the meaning behind it. Instead, he held Derek closer, his eyes closing as they kissed again. 

-

Spring meant the weather turned from cold and bitter to sunny with the promise of summer on the horizon. It also meant the markets were bustling and slavers eager to sell their stock. Stiles awoke early, as he always did, unwrapping himself from Derek’s arms as he lay sleeping, in order to work in his garden. 

Instead of wearing a short tunica that barely covered his thighs, Stiles wore one that cut off at his knees, giving him a feeling of security that he never felt under the gaze of Peter, who denied him even that. Though collared and branded, Stiles did not feel trapped within the walls of the villa. It felt like a home that he didn’t dare wish to have anything other than. 

His old life was all but gone, nothing remained but the memories of Gaul. Rome was his home, and Derek his lover and Dominus. He was given certain freedoms as Derek’s secretary, like taking money into the market and buying that which he wished for the household or even slaves. 

Stiles enjoyed leaving the walls of the villa, even if for such a short time as walking to and from the thermae, but it was within the walls that he felt safest while in Derek’s arms. 

Once Derek awoke, bathed, and ate, Stiles, Derek, Scott, and two guards walked through the marketplace together. It was upon seeing a slaver that piqued Stiles’ interest. 

“We are in need of a gardener,” Stiles said to Derek. “I cannot be a secretary and a gardener with spring in bloom.” 

“Then we will find one,” Derek said simply, leading the way. Stiles looked over the slaves, all dirtied and bound before them. He thought of himself in the same place but felt nothing for them. They were to be bought and sold no matter what it felt. They were as he once was, but perhaps their lives would become as his. He couldn’t dwell on it, wouldn’t allow himself to. 

“We seek a gardener,” Derek told the slaver, holding out his pouch of money that Scott had been carrying for him. Stiles eyed the slaves before them, looking them over before he gazed upon an older man, rail-thin and gaunt. Stiles’ eyes widened, his hand going to Derek’s wrist in earnest. 

“I have found our man,” Stiles said, locking eyes with Derek. “Pray, buy the old man.” 

“That is unwise,” Derek said. “He looks as though he will fall over with one push of the wind.” Frantic, Stiles shook his head, his grip tightening with haste. 

“Dominus, I beg of you.” Derek took in Stiles’ severity and nodded his head. 

“I will take the old man.” 

“Ten denarii,” the slaver said, spitting on the ground. Ten denarii was nothing. Stiles bit his tongue as he watched coin exchange hands, his grip not loosening on Derek’s wrist. 

“I’ll take another, that man there,” Derek pointed to a young man, a mop of curly blonde hair and sharp cheekbones. 

“Very well,” the slaver said. “We will have them brought to you by nightfall.” 

Upon returning to the villa, Stiles paced the atrium. His actions did not go unnoticed by Derek. 

“Speak your mind,” Derek said as he sipped watered-down wine. 

“You have bought a gardener that could make your peristylium something even the gods would become jealous of,” Stiles said as he watched the doors. 

“How do you know this?” Derek asked, his tone light. Stiles stopped pacing in order to take Derek’s face in his hands, his eyes watering. 

“Because he is my father,” Stiles whispered. Derek’s eyes widened before his as Stiles wiped at his eyes. “My father is alive, and you have bought him. You saved him from a cruel death of starvation, for no one would have bought him.” 

“He will be well looked after,” Derek admitted to him, his arms wrapping around Stiles after setting his wine cup aside. 

“I know it to be true,” Stiles said as he buried his face against Derek’s neck, his eyes closing as Derek held him close. 

Just before sunset, his father and the other slave were brought to them. As soon as the doors shut, Stiles ran to his father, who looked as though he had seen a ghost. 

“Stiles,” he said. “My Stiles, you’re alive.” They clung to each other, both of them in tears. 

“More than just,” Stiles said. “I am but a secretary to the Hales, and you their newest asset.” 

“Come, let us have you washed, fed, and rested,” Derek said, indicating to Marin to help both of the slaves. “Then you may have your reunion.” 

As Stiles watched his father disappear, he turned towards Derek. 

“He may not survive the brand,” Stiles said. “Not in his weakened state--”

“Do not worry,” Derek said. “The brand can wait. He looks as though he’s been through hell and back again. His strength will be returned first.” Stiles nodded, taking in steady breaths before he leaned in, kissing Derek on the lips openly. Derek held onto Stiles, deepening the kiss. 

He cupped Derek’s face in his hands once more, as Derek mimicked his actions, the two of them looking each other in the eyes, smiling. 

“This villa is our sanctuary,” Derek said. 

“Yes, Dominus,” Stiles answered, fully believing it. 

**acta est fabula**

**Author's Note:**

> the non-con is briefly between Stiles and a Senator, but nothing is shown. Afterwards, there are scenes of Peter raping Stiles, as keeping with the time period where slaves were treated as property and not people. 
> 
> Derek and Stiles' relationship is tagged as dub-con because of the power imbalance between them throughout.
> 
> date: please do not REPOST this fic anywhere else without my consent. Please do not put it on GoodReads that is a site for PUBLISHED works, not fic.


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